Burden Bright
by high.fiving.jesus
Summary: He sits out on the fire escape quietly and she whispers horrible stories to the wind. They carry, whip his hair around his eyes, punch him in the temple, and set his tear ducts to flood. AU one-shot.


**Underneath all of those 'Chaos' stories and fan made 'Mark of Athena's, are the high school and/or college stories. And under those? Truth or dare. Then you've got the children of Annabeth and Percy scampering around and either saving or completely destroying the world and its natural order. Yeah, that's great, thanks. And **_**then **_**you've got angst.**

**Angst stories are so overdone but they've got so much potential. So much… untapped potential. **

**Don't get me wrong, some people draw you in with those stories; it's just that there's so much hope riding on them. These stories can go deep. I'm hoping to just scratch the surface with this.**

* * *

**Quote: ** _I wish I could see through your eyes so I would know what you like to see. I wish I knew your wishes, so I could give you everything you want. _–Unknown

**Rating: T**

**Pairings: Percabeth (as always)**

**Spoilers: N/A**

* * *

**BURDEN BRIGHT  
**_(Operation Restoration)_

I feel them, their stares and sneers.

I hear them, their calls and jabs.

I hate them, their ruthlessness and cruelty.

* * *

I watch her from across the chasm, sitting out on my rust-bitten fire escape with my arms wrapped tightly around my knees. My fingers dig deep in my skin, nails gnawing through the flesh and drinking shallow sips of blood. My knuckles burn white.

It would be so easy to leave her, slip back in my too-wide-open window and shut it tight, sealing her own fate and leaving her be. That would be too unbelievably easy, too irrevocable. My bum was numb from hours of waiting and wistfully thinking.

Life was ultimately a breeze prior to her arrival. It hadn't seemed like it at the time—first-world problems; what a terror!—but I had no impossible mountains to climb. Just grains of sand in comparison. I wasn't popular, and on occasion a stubborn zit sprouted on the tip of my nose, and good God, could my boss get any more annoying? I mean, seriously, get off my back, I'll get around to cleaning the dam—but none of that really meant anything.

I'd come home, take a warm shower and nibble on one of my mother's cookies and when my head hit the pillow, it was a promise of renewal. I'd wake up and have the same old hop to my step, out the door, into my cousin's sweet ride.

She was so freaking impossible though! The first time I saw her was in Chem. class and there was instant tension. She slid into the seat next to me, flipped her hair over her shoulder—but not the way a girl normally would; she actually covered her face so I _couldn't _get a real look at her—and slipped out a sleek black notebook. Fine, you know, whatever. It hadn't mattered at the time that much. I checked my breath, pushed my hair out of my eyes and hunched over my own doodled on notebook to write down some chemical reaction formulas. Just the usual crap.

I hadn't quite got a clue until the hottest day of the year rolled around. We had spat a few words at each other on occasion in our shared fourth period. And so this one day, the sun's blistering the ground, rays of light skateboarding across the pavement. It's humid and muggy from a rain early that morning. Everyone's as close to being naked as possible; girls in midriff tops and short shorts, guys in tees with basketball shorts. Sandals all around.

She walked into fourth, her hair down, blanketing her neck and decked out in a peach sweater and white jeans. The only thing mildly acceptable about her outfit: white flip-flops. Beads of sweat clustered at her hairline, and I knew she was burning up. Intuition. Or the fact that she was waving at her face.

So I spat something out about her clothes, and what the hell was going on in her mind that she'd wear _that_ on today of all days.

It was miniscule but still there. All the signs. She just swallowed really hard and grabbed her sleeves to pull them down further, kept waving away while our Chem. teacher droned on about something chloride and potassium iodine. But nothing trilled back at me. No sassy, completely witty remark about my lacking apparel and fashion sense (neither of us excelled here, but she had me beat by a landslide); no hushed sneer about something only she'd understand. Not even an amused grin. I deserved that grin; I was accustomed to seeing that grin.

A week later, a party was up in the air—parent's might be leaving town, dude; you in?—and I figured I might as well invite her. My cousin knew this senior and he was a big deal. Instantly got me a V.I.P. pass since he wanted her _like, totes bad_ according to their mutual acquaintance, Silena. I wanted to get to know her a little better. Smart, funny, totally out of my league (just my speed), and wicked beautiful. Not sexy or hot; the effort level on vanity was at an all time low. But she just was and I liked it that way.

I knew which apartment was hers and with just a little thought process about how to approach this as indolently as possible, I realized she was literally a stone's throw away.

I crept out my window, cautious of the state my fire escape was in, and when I was certain that I wouldn't fall to my untimely death, I glanced her way. I wouldn't have known which room was hers unless I caught sight of her fourth period binder sitting on her desk, the lamp flickering across the pages. She had odd trinkets set on her desk: one of those weird dippy birds that peck at the air, a glass cube balanced on its corner, a crayon-scribbled rubix cube. A vanity mirror nestled against the wall intimately. It was so perfect.

And then there were screams. Horror movie maybe? But they weren't the blood-curdling, spine-chilling kind. They were agonized and hopeless. Livid shouting. Glass shattered and then… nothing.

I waited for my heart to beat before backing slowly into my room.

I went to the party numb, my fingers spazzing and twitching. My brain was on auto pilot. I got offered a drink and the first sip had my stomach in a vise grip. Its liquid fist crushed my insides and twisted them around into weak amoebas. I couldn't function; I got sick in a vase, I think.

When I pushed through my front door, guilt slapped me with a two-by-four. What if she wasn't okay? They could've just been robbed or even murdered and I backed out like a coward. I hesitated in my return back to my room though, wandering around my kitchen looking for pain killers for the next morning. I straightened up the cabinets, cleaned out the fridge, even did the dishes. Eventually, I had no choice but to return to my room; so I did and readied myself for bed.

That dragging shame still hung around my neck like a cross so I traversed the room and peered out my window to be met by drawn curtains and hushed darkness just beyond them. She was asleep then. Or the murderers had the courtesy to save them money on their electric bill. Two and two hadn't quite come together yet.

The weekend passed without incident. I caught her eye when I was cleaning my window with some Windex and paper towels, her glaring out over the city with a book clamped tightly to her side. I gave her a wink and she just stared. Her curtains swung closed and I didn't see her until Tuesday morning just before the bell for first period.

She told me that it was creepy how close I lived to her. I reminded her that I lived there first so she would technically be my stalker; I hoped she wouldn't beat me when she realized she couldn't have me. The conversation kind of shut down and she whispered that she'd see me in fourth. This was, by the way, a lie because she never showed up to fourth period. In fact, I didn't run into her at school until Friday in class.

I bombed her with unsuspected, kind of overbearing questions. I wasn't really paranoid that she had switched classes and I didn't believe she owed me some peace of mind, knowing where she was (the murderers could've returned to dispense the ghost of her that was walking around) I just really enjoyed seeing her exhale heavily through her nose and pinch the bridge just between her eyes. It was kinda cute and extremely rewarding. She told me to take my cup of care and shove it in a place that would be mega-uncomfortable.

I laughed. It was funny at the moment.

Sunday night, it all fell into place.

I crawled out of my window to sit and stare at the stars, just wanting to think away my own problems (Rachel's dad had forbidden any contact while she was away at finishing school, Nico was planning a trip to L.A. that mom had turned down, Grover was demanding I adopt a pup from the ASPCA but it was nearly impossible with the rules laid down by the landlord, etc) when a whole other world landed in my lap. It took too long to notice but when I did, my heart crawled in a hole and just died.

She was curled tightly into herself, her princess curls a waterfall down her shoulders and back, and had her arms wrapped protectively around her knees. She was doing this weird, jerking motion, her back heaving up and down sporadically. I didn't realize she was sobbing until my mouth whispered her name and she shot puffy eyes at me. Her bare arms instantly hid behind her pajama-clad legs. Her toes curled up like that would make everything about her, too, disappear.

She was quick but not enough to cover the purple and yellow bruise the size of a blood orange on the side of her left upper arm. Not enough to shade the scar on her forearm. Not near enough to curtain the slight dent on her collar bone that told me it was either badly broken or poorly set after a bad break.

I couldn't reach out to her—she was too far and even if I wanted to, we weren't exactly close enough for that sort of comfort. I couldn't even think to speak, but I didn't have to.

Please don't tell.

Um_... _what?

Please don't _tell?_

How could I not _tell_? Someone, my assumption was one of her parents, had hurt her. And it wasn't disciplinary like the quick lashes on my bum that my mother had given me as a child. It wasn't even a handprint on her cheek that would wear away and stop stinging. This was rage, a burning desire to inflict severity and cruelty on her lithe and pretty self. It was heart-stopping and eye-opening. I should've known instantly but it was hard to tell if you weren't looking for it, and I definitely wasn't. She smiled with her friends at the lunch table and such, joked with guys who I guess were cute—I didn't really notice much. She seemed _normal._

That made me wonder how many other _normal_ kids suffered a daily lash of violence.

But they weren't her and she was, so that was what mattered at the moment.

"How…?"

"I didn't think anyone would find out. But you can't tell! _Swear it?_"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you swear it?"

"Annabeth, I…"

"Percy!"

Well, what could I do? She wanted me to swear it, and I did on the condition that she'd tell me. Every time. That she'd let me in, that I could be there for her. That she'd trust me.

Now, I sit waiting for her to crawl up the passage, squeeze through the gates of Hell and whisper horrible stories into the wind. They'd each whip my hair around my eyes, punch my temples and set my tear ducts to flood. Because hearing this stuff about her, being unable to say words enough to save her, being unable to tell, seeing her grey eyes kills me. It's a slow and agonizing way to go.

It's half past midnight when she finally retreats from the battlegrounds, beaten and bruised and she sits, her eyes not meeting mine. I can see already a bruise painting around her eyes, mapping out pain on her face and I wonder how she'll cover it up tomorrow or the next day.

The city is alive, but we are both so dead inside. Horns honk and cats howl; we are quiet. Her legs are curled out to her side, like she could just lie down and die right there comfortably. A streetlight is flickering irritably over a drug deal or some other illegal trade. Tall towers kiss the night sky and smog encases Manhattan like a dome. No stars would be seen tonight. Bright lights twinkle ignorantly. I'm pretty sure the couple just by her room is flirting too inappropriately to have the curtains open.

Her eyes are drying rapidly, but mine have just begun to water. Her shoulders aren't so tense anymore, like just breathing the air that isn't shared by her parent's is a blessing times a million. I feel so small and helpless, like I've done nothing for her benefit since the day I found out the truth. I've listened and been weak for her and whined about the unfairness of life and she's had to be the tough one. I suddenly feel sick to my stomach. She can't always be strong.

I don't notice her mouth opening to speak before I murmur what I didn't even know was tickling the edge of my tongue.

"I think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." I'm staring blankly at the floor of her fire escape, not really wanting to know what she's thinking. If I had said it—though I wouldn't have meant it—to anyone else, I would've been embarrassed. But it's true and she needs to hear it. I know what they say to her; I know that this is not enough to make up for all they've done. I'll never be enough or have enough to offer. But it's a start, and it's all I can get out right now.

"You don't mean that…"

In horror, I look up and something in my eyes must make her see the truth, must hold her gaze. I realize I'm angry. I'm livid beyond belief and I'm worried she'll think me as terrible as them.

"Yes," my voice is almost harsh, though I only meant for it to be firm. "I do."

* * *

I feel an undeniable, undying sense of gratitude towards him who says so much with so little.

I know it's too soon to tell if he's permanent, but I've already placed all my silent hope on him solely. Not in a romantic manner, I've given him the power to break me. I'm silently willing it; without him I've got nothing. He's got me tied down without a clue and I'd be willing to flee if he'd just let me go.

But he knows too much and yet too little to understand his importance. The weight of the world on his shoulders, but it's like I put it there when he had his eyes turned and he's too busy to notice.

I know when he opens his eyes, it'll crush him but I like the feeling of handing everything over.

And he says such wonderful things.

* * *

"I think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

_I know; I'm sorry; I'm here._

* * *

**Fin?**

**A/N: I can't honestly say this is the end of that. If I feel the urge and am encouraged I might continue with a partner story on the side that'll act as a continuation.**

**Don't interpret this as my official rejoining of the fandom. I haven't quite determined how I feel about finishing what I started.**


End file.
